


The Value of Being a Mysterious Stranger

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Avoidance, Bad High School Experiences, Cas Being Stubborn, Cookies as Flirting, Dean POV, Dean With Issues, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Miscommunication, Poor Decision-Making Skills, Sam As Matchmaker, Teenage Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dean's movie is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unknown_World"><i>The Unknown World</i></a> -- totally worth seeing if you get a chance!</p><p>I wrote this fic before I saw episode 5.04, "The End." Thus, my choice of 2010 was <i>completely</i> at random: nothing is intended by it except that it was easy to type and I didn't realise I might accidentally be hurling a spanner into the works of my own damned story.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean remembers the first time he was kissed by a man. A boy, really -- only fifteen, a year older than Dean was at the time.

It was during one of his sporadic attempts to attend school. This one lasted longer than most because John disappeared somewhere for the best part of two months, hunting who knew what, who knew where. The only proof of his continued existence was the daily phone call.

The boys were living in a fleabag ‘rent by the week’ apartment, but the landlady, Caroline, was unusually kind. She stopped by to check on them every couple of days, helped Sam out of a tight place with the loan of some schoolbooks from her daughter (who Dean privately thought had kind of a thing for Sammy), and brought them the occasional half-pot of chili or soup, always saying that she had miscalculated and made too much for her and Andrea to eat.

Sometimes, since Adam, Dean wonders if he and Sam had a half-sister. He’s thought about going back, but never has. What would be the point? Bring her into the life, too? Let her know all the glories of being a Winchester? Fuck that.

And he’s _never_ wanted to go back and find the boy who insisted on being known as Bubba after his favorite uncle. He was a beanpole of a boy and the nickname seemed even more than usually ridiculous.

He had lank red-blond hair, long hands, scarred and scratched from farm work, and a taste for overalls with white t-shirts beneath. 

To this day, Dean blames his almost Pavlovian reaction to a plain white men’s t-shirt on Bubba Howard.

But it turned out that while Dean had been watching Bubba and developing a mild fixation on white t-shirts, Bubba had been watching Dean in return, maybe developing his own reaction to muscular teenagers in leather jackets that were just a touch too large.

Dean can remember -- vividly, if he puts his mind to it -- the feel of sunburned hands on his hips and the faint taste of school lunch pudding on Bubba’s mouth. He had been surprisingly gentle, all things considered, choosing the dark corner of a hallway outside the band room to make his move, giving Dean full opportunity to duck and run.

He hadn’t been at all gentle the next day in giving Dean a black eye for saying hello in the hallway before classes started and gently nudging shoulders with him.

But it turned out Bubba could be surprised, too -- Dean was sure he hadn’t expected the knee to the groin followed by the neat uppercut to the chin as he doubled over. Maybe he’d been paying more attention to the leather jacket than the muscles after all.

Dean had enjoyed that suspension.

He had also enjoyed giving Bubba a black eye to match his own when the other boy had shown up at the apartment and tried to apologize: “Geeze, Win, you can’t just do that to a guy. I mean, the other guys’ll think we’re fags--”

Dean hadn’t bothered to listen to the rest of the sentence. Of all the problems currently in his life, what anyone in this back end of nowhere high school thought of his sexuality didn’t even begin to make the list.

Since then, he’d learned the value of being the “mysterious stranger.” No-one expected a call the next day; no-one expected him to have somewhere for them to go; and most people didn’t even want him to be there in the morning. Perfect, as far as Dean was concerned. Much less chance of getting punched in the face.

* * *

What all of this added up to, though, was complete confusion for Dean when Castiel’s hand dropped casually over his own while he was considering whether the blackhaired guy at the end of the bar would be worth the trouble of buying a beer for.

Dean looks down at their hands. Castiel’s skin is pale next to his and his hand is slightly smaller than Dean’s. ‘Cas? Uh -- somethin’ you wanna say?’

‘Do not look at that man again.’ Castiel might have been asking if he wanted more french fries.

Dean blinks. ‘Say what?’ Cas had never bothered interfering in his sex life before -- hell, he’d picked up men _and_ women without the angel appearing to blink an eye. 

True, once or twice Dean had felt a little awkward about it since his taste in men, if he was honest with himself, ran to those who _looked_ at least a bit like Cas. But he told himself firmly that was a long standing trend and nothing at all to do with the angel. If he chose not to examine exactly _how_ long the long standing was -- well, that had nothing to do with anyone.

‘Do not look at that man again.’

‘Why not?’

‘He is part incubus. It would not be safe for you.’

‘Ok...’ Dean looks down at their hands again and wiggles his fingers under Castiel’s, more in the nature of experiment than anything else. Castiel’s hand does not move away. ‘So ...what’s this about?’

‘I -- have seen others do it.’ Is it his imagination or does Cas sound more awkward than usual? The angel is staring straight ahead, apparently fascinated with the arrangement of brightly colored bottles on the back-lit bar back. ‘I thought it might make the incubus look elsewhere.’

Dean takes a sidelong glance down the bar. True enough, the blackhaired man has turned his attention to a short blonde waitress who seems to be getting a hell of a kick out of something he said. 

‘Looks like it worked.’ Dean turns back and looks back down at their hands. Castiel’s skin is warming rapidly under his and -- experimentally -- he turns his hand over, letting Cas’ fingers rest against his. It feels...nice and he can’t remember the last time he tried to hold someone’s _hand_ \-- maybe to stop someone yanking his hair out, but that was about it. ‘Do you know why people do this, Cas?’

Castiel shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘It shows someone’s yours -- that...that you can do this with them.’ Dean tightens his hand experimentally. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and his lips feel a little dry, so he licks them before he goes on. ‘So is that what you’re sayin’, Cas? ‘m I yours?’

Castiel says nothing and withdraws his hand slowly.

* * *

The same thing happens again a couple nights later -- this time, it’s a woman and Castiel’s hand stays on Dean’s for longer. 

A week after that, it’s a man again and this time Dean manages to twine his fingers with Castiel’s and keep hold of the angel’s hand for almost a full quarter of an hour. And even after Castiel moves his hand away, Dean would swear he can still feel the press of skin against his and he keeps flexing his hand absently, trying to recapture the sensation. 

After the fourth time, more than two weeks later -- a woman and this time, Castiel’s fingers barely brush against his for a second -- Dean merely glances up to see what the threat is this time and then catches Castiel’s hand, pulling him back out of his chair. Castiel follows wordlessly and Dean tugs him back to a small side hallway that leads to nothing more exciting than a storage closet stocked with a broom, dustpan, and a box of rags.

Dean takes Castiel by the shoulders and, not ungently, pushes him back against the wall and plants a hand flat on either side of his shoulders, effectively pinning him in place. ‘Okay, Cas. Talk.’

‘About what?’ 

‘About what the hell you’re doin’.’

‘I am standing--’

‘Haha, very funny. Every time someone catches my eye now, all of a sudden they’re demon spawn or half-incubus or whatever the fuck it was tonight -- why is that, Cas?’

‘I am trying to keep you safe!’ Castiel snaps.

‘Funny, it’s never stopped me getting laid before.’

The angel’s mouth tightens slightly. ‘I am -- sorry -- if I --’

‘Y’know, here’s the thing, Cas,’ Dean leans in a tiny bit closer and almost whispers the next words: ‘I don’t think you _are_ sorry. You don’t _look_ sorry.’ Slowly, deliberately, Dean reaches down and slides his fingers between Castiel’s, pressing them palm to palm, feeling cool skin warm against his own.

When he looks back at Castiel’s face, the angel’s eyes are blown wide and dark and he’s bitten his lip hard: Dean can just see the flush of red fading.

‘So...would it be easier if I said you were mine?’ Dean has no idea where those words came from. He would swear that two seconds ago he had no more idea of saying them than he did of reciting the local phone book in Japanese. 

He wasn’t even _aware_ of wanting Cas -- not like _this_ \-- but he does now. It’s a sudden, sharp feeling like the realisation that he’s incredibly thirsty or the first prickles of a bad sunburn. He can feel his skin against his clothes and the brush of Castiel’s cuff against his wrist and he’s suddenly acutely aware of the _smell_ of the angel -- unlike anything else in the rather musty bar-room -- and the body heat coming through his clothes. 

Castiel looks up at him without speaking and, a little as if it hurts, nods. Once.

‘Then why the Christ didn’t you say so!’ Dean dives forward and licks Castiel’s bitten lip, soothes at the sore spot before he kisses it. ‘Why the hell didn’t you just _say_...’ he mutters against Castiel’s mouth, not wanting to pull back any further than he has to, and shuddering somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach at the brush of warm, slightly rough lips against his. 

‘I do not...I...’ Castiel takes a deep breath and Dean feels the inhalation against his own lips. ‘I do not wish to be one of your...lays, Dean.’ With what feels like an intense, focused effort, even to Dean who is not making it, Castiel steps past him, away from the wall. ‘I will not do that.’

‘Don’t--’ Dean reaches out for him, but doesn’t quite make it: Cas is just out of reach. ‘Cas, I--’ 

And all he can think about is the black eye he never saw coming and his throat closes and he nods.

* * *

The next night, Dean grabs a sandwich at the corner store near the motel and sprawls back on his bed, propping one booted foot on top of another.

‘Not hungry?’ Sam pauses at the door, wallet in one hand, Castiel a step or two further beyond, in the dimness of the late summer evening.

‘’m fine.’ Dean waves the plastic-wrapped sandwich at him. ‘You two have fun.’ He picks up the remote and turns on the TV.

‘See you later.’ Sam turns back and finds empty space where Castiel had been. He surveys the emptiness for a minute, then shrugs, and closes the door.

Dean finds a satisfactorily bad old black and white movie and begins picking out the more edible parts of the sandwich.

‘What are you doing?’ Castiel reappears at the foot of the bed just as the group of heroes is discovering if rabbits will or will not breed in the depths of the radiation-proof caves they have discovered, against all geologic likelihood, at the center of the Earth.

‘Hm?’ Dean looks up absently. The sandwich lies gutted on its plastic wrapper and he has been trying to chase down a fragment of olive from the last scoop of egg salad. Seriously: who the hell puts olives in their egg salad? ‘Ha! Success!’ He flicks the olive onto a pile of detritus on the paper bag -- red peppers, other bits of olive, chunks of pickle (were these people barbarians or what?) -- and scoops up the last bit of egg salad, sucking it triumphantly off his thumb. ‘What can I do for you, Cas?’ He leans back on the bed, thoughtfully making sure his thumb is as clean as he can get it.

‘Why are you here? Why did you not go with Sam? I know you found the waitress at the diner attractive and she is-- Why -- why are you being so difficult!’ Castiel’s fists are clenched and he is scowling.

Dean grins at him cheerily and links his hands behind his head. ‘Well, it’s like this. If you think I’m Mr Love ‘em and Leave ‘em 2010, I’m just gonna have to prove I’m not.’

‘What will that do?’

‘Let me get in your pants, for a start.’ Dean winks.

But if he had thought that was where Castiel would be overcome with angry lust and leap upon him to be soothed by Dean’s expert ministrations and it would all end happily -- that was where there was a Castiel-shaped hole in the air to prove him wrong.

‘What? Hey -- Cas --’ Dean sits up, acutely conscious of the throb between his legs and the emptiness of the room. ‘Shit.’

* * *

‘So what are you doing in town tonight?’ Dean slides onto the barstool beside Castiel and leans to catch the bartender’s eye.

Castiel gives him a sharp sideways look. ‘You know what I am doing here, Dean.’

Dean rolls his eyes and gives up on the bartender for the minute; he’s fully occupied with what looks like a gaggle of sorority girls at the other end of the bar. He leans an elbow on the bartop and turns towards Castiel. ‘Humor me.’

Castiel sighs and his tone clearly indicates how ridiculous he thinks this is. ‘I am in town with...friends.’

‘Friends?’

‘Yes.’

Dean waits but Castiel offers nothing further. ‘Okay, Cas, this is the part where you say something else.’

‘Dean, what is this?’ Castiel abandons whatever fascinating game he had been playing with the varnish on the bartop and turns fully towards Dean. ‘You know precisely why I am here -- you and Sam and I are hunting for--’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay. But that’s not the point.’

‘Would you tell me what the point is that we may come to it quickly, please?’

‘Okay, here’s how it goes.’ Dean starts counting off points on his fingers. ‘One, I ask you what you’re doing in town tonight. Two, you tell me. Three, I say something back. Four, you realise I’m hotter than hell. Five, we fuck. Is any of this making sense to you?’

‘That will not happen, Dean.’

‘So pretend I’m some hot stranger you just met!’ The desperation in his own voice surprises him and Dean bites back what he had been going to say next. ‘Jesus, Cas, just...help me out here a little, will you?’

Castiel gives him a long contemplative look and Dean tries to meet it as best he can, but he feels that whatever silent test Cas is giving him he must be failing. How can he do anything _other_ than fail it? 

‘I understand what you are trying to do, Dean.’ Castiel touches his hand briefly, far too briefly for Dean’s taste. ‘But--’

Dean sighs and props his head on his hand. ‘Could you just...just maybe pretend, Cas? Just pretend like...’

‘Like I am human. Which I am not.’ Castiel moves to stand up and Dean catches his arm.

‘Wait -- wait, _that’s_ the problem with all this? You think I--’

‘Not now, perhaps. But you...will find someone more suitable.’ Castiel glances around the bar-room and points, perhaps at random, Dean has no idea, towards a corner table. ‘There.’

‘Cas--’

‘It will not take you long.’ Castiel gives him what might be meant for an encouraging smile and is gone.

* * *

Dean takes over the bathroom after Sam is solidly asleep. ‘Cas -- Castiel, I want you down here _now._ ’ He’s been waiting and thinking about this for four hours and he thinks if he has to wait and think much longer he might just knock Castiel’s block off the next time he sees him.

‘Dean, this is not--’

Dean gets up and grabs Castiel by the lapels before he can say anything else. ‘Answer me one question -- no fucking around, no mysterious comments, no philosophical debating, a straight-up yes or no. Got it?’

Castiel nods wordlessly.

‘This whole thing, all this bullshit about not wanting to be... and the thing in the bar tonight -- that was all because you think the angel thing matters?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘Cas--’

‘I have answered as you asked! Yes, I think it matters; no, it is not all that matters.’

‘Then what the hell is the rest of it?’ Dean sees Castiel’s eyes slide away from his face towards the wall and gives him a slight shake. ‘Straight answer, Cas!’

‘It would be...too difficult for me to see you with...others. I do not...wish to...put myself through it. I am...sorry if this makes things difficult for you.’ Castiel’s mouth tightens slightly and he adds: ‘I realise I may have made things...worse through my own...lack of understanding. I...apologise if this is the case.’

‘So how do we fix it -- change it -- whatever?’

‘Dean --’

‘No, I don’t care -- I’m tired of this; I can’t get you out of my head since I realised you were in it and I don’t give a shit that you’re an angel -- why the hell should I? You’ve saved my ass nine times over!’ Dean releases Castiel’s lapels, smoothing his hands over the rumpled fabric, focusing on his own fingers rather than on Castiel’s face because he doesn’t think he can meet the angel’s eyes right this minute. 

‘Dean, it would matter--’

‘Why? What’s the difference? So you’ve got wings -- and? It’s not like you wander around with feathers stickin’ out of your back!’

‘I am...stronger than you.’

Dean swallows against a sudden dryness in his throat. It’s strangely tempting to think about that much strength contained in such a slight body. ‘So...you think you’d hurt me?’ 

Castiel nods silently.

‘So I drive -- fine, there’s that problem solved. Next.’

‘Dean--’

‘ _Next,_ Cas.’

Castiel throws up his hands. ‘I -- This body may not _work._ I do not know -- and I--’

‘Oh, I think we can work that out.’ Dean shoves his hands deep in his pockets to keep from reaching out and touching. ‘Jimmy had a family, right? Then I’m guessin’ things work just fine.’

‘But I am not Jimmy. He is no longer _in_ this body -- I -- do not know what to do.’ Castiel’s voice fades to a near whisper by the last words and he’s staring down at his feet.

Dean pauses for a minute, making a rare attempt to work out what he’s going to say next before he says it. ‘So -- the way I see it, there’re three problems. You don’t want to see me with other people. You’re afraid you’ll hurt me. And...you’re not quite sure how the buttons work.’

Castiel nods again, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

‘So as far as I can tell, the...the buttons work best when you just...test ‘em out. See what feels good.’ Dean pauses and licks lips gone suddenly dry. ‘I don’t think that’s a problem. I don’t think you’ll hurt me because you don’t want to -- you’ve never hurt me before, Cas; I don’t think you’ll start now.’ He hesitates again because the next bit is the hardest to say. ‘And...and I don’t think you’ll have to worry about seeing me with other people.’

‘And why is that, Dean?’ Castiel looks up at him and his jaw is set and his eyes bright blue, sharp, the expression he has when he wants to impress Dean into silence. But it’s not gonna work this time, Dean reminds himself.

‘Because I’m not stupid, Cas.’ Dean _knows_ he had something better to say planned out -- but Castiel’s gaze is hard and unbending and he can’t _think_ under it. It’s like Cas is _waiting_ for him to lie and has he really been _that_ untrustworthy? 

Castiel watches him for a long moment, then shakes his head slowly.

‘Jesus, Cas, no -- c’mon, give me a--’ The room is empty. ‘--break.’ Dean resists the urge to punch the wall. ‘Fuck.’

* * *

The next night, Dean goes out on his own, picks the first girl he sees when he walks in the first bar he finds, and tells himself the next day that he had a great time.

The fact that she’s small, light-boned, and has short dark hair has nothing to do with it, he tells himself repeatedly.

Castiel simply glances at him over breakfast the next morning -- the angel nursing the single cup of black coffee that seems to be all he ever eats or drinks -- and seems to read the whole night on his face. Dean waits with his jaw clenched, but Cas says nothing.

* * *

The bad trick was bound to turn up sooner or later and while Dean is pulling himself up a dank brick wall behind a bar-room somewhere on the edge of a tiny town in Pennsylvania, he thinks that at least there was nothing more than one fake ID and twenty bucks in the wallet the kid had stolen. 

He gives up the effort to stand after the alley starts to swirl around him and sits back down on the damp pavement. He pulls up his knees and drapes his arms over them, letting his head drop onto the backs of his wrists, waiting for his ears to stop ringing.

What the hell is he doing with his time? Nearly getting his guts kicked out by some kid desperate for a twenty? He’s too old for this shit. He’s too old and...and, shit, the kid could’ve been Castiel’s cousin. So what the hell is he going to do? Barcrawl his way across America trying to fuck anyone who _looks_ like the one person who _won’t_ fuck him?

He drops his head back against the cool, damp brick and tells the sky, ‘Even I’m not that fuckin’ stupid.’

So what’s the alternative? Celibacy apparently because talkin’ to Cas isn’t gonna get him much further forward: the angel just doesn’t want to hear it and, reviewing the past six months in his head, Dean can’t honestly say he blames him. 

But it’s not like he’s done anything _different_ from what he did before Castiel showed up -- the angel must’ve _noticed,_ for God’s sake! 

‘Are you all right, Dean?’ The quiet voice is, somehow, not a surprise and Dean rolls his head along the bricks until he can see Cas standing a few feet away, backlit by a foggy streetlight at the end of the alley.

‘So what’s the difference, Cas?’ The tilt of the angel’s head is enough to tell Dean his question isn’t understood. ‘Why do you care now? You know what I’m like -- Christ, if you’ve been watchin’ my whole life, you know what I’m like better’n I do!’

Castiel is silent for a minute, then speaks slowly: ‘I did not know what you were like before. I knew...part of what you were. And I do not...enjoy seeing you hurt yourself.’

‘Hey, someone else did this--’ Dean groans his way up to standing and steadies himself on the wall, knees bent, trying not to think about what he’s just been sitting in.

‘I love you, Dean. I always have. I will not help you treat yourself badly.’ Then, as if he hadn’t just blown Dean’s world into tiny fragments, Castiel walks over to him and slides an arm around his waist, helping him stand up. ‘Come -- you need to lie down.’


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Dean has crippled his way back to the motel room -- and in all honesty he probably could have done without Castiel’s support after a block or two but is he that stupid? Hell, no -- his brain has just about come back to center. ‘You... _love_ me?’

Castiel eases him down onto a bed carefully. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Of _course?_ What the fuck _of course!_ There’s no fucking _of course!_ I’m an _asshole,_ Cas!’ He bites his teeth together, horrified. _Oh, Christ, why did I say that._

Castiel doesn’t seem taken back or appalled. He takes a step back and regards Dean calmly. ‘I am aware of that.’

Dean sputters. ‘Then -- why -- what -- if -- if...then why the hell won’t you fuck me!’

‘Because I do not wish to.’ His voice is cool, noticeably calmer than the last time they had this conversation, but Dean notices Castiel has slid his hands into the pockets of his coat, something he rarely does. ‘I do not wish you to have more fodder for thinking yourself worthless.’

‘I don’t think that!’

‘Then why do you treat yourself like this?’ Castiel nods at him, somehow managing to take in the grunge on Dean’s jeans, the tear just below one knee, the dirt on his cheek, the bruise on his stomach, and the missing wallet all at once.

‘It was bad fucking luck, Cas, everyone--’

‘You go looking for it. I have watched you, Dean, and I believe you go looking for the person most likely to confirm your vision of yourself. I will not do that for you.’

‘Then what the fuck--’ Dean bites back a gasp as Castiel is abruptly kneeling in front of him, hands on his knees, wrist brushing warm against his calf through the rip in his jeans.

‘I would not have you believe that this is the...the...the only way to treat yourself. Not everyone is that boy in Kentucky.’

Dean stares at him for a minute. ‘Jesus...Christ... _Bubba?_ How the hell do you--’

‘There was a possibility he would injure you badly. I had to be sure that would not happen.’ Castiel sits back on his heels. ‘I understand that it hurt you, Dean -- it was a shameful thing for the boy to do. But he acted out of fear and you have carried the injury with you like a talisman. You may as well have tried to pick up his fear and take it with you. It could do him no good and you only harm.’

‘I could give a damn what that little bastard--’ But Dean knows how thin his voice sounds and doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.

Castiel lifts an eyebrow. ‘I cannot heal you of that.’ He pauses for a moment and, when he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost a whisper: ‘I...wish I could.’ He pushes himself smoothly to his feet and, when he speaks again, his voice is calm and cool, as if he were discussing the details of the next day’s hunt. ‘But I will not let you use me to prove your worthlessness to yourself.’

‘Then what, Cas?’ Dean almost stretches out to grab Castiel’s arm, but his hand falls just short. ‘What the hell do I do?’

‘Stop.’ And Castiel is gone.

* * *

Five towns and nearly a month later and Dean finds himself on a barstool again. It’s been a long month -- seven hunts, two of which ended up with him and Sam well-bruised and one of which landed Castiel with a broken wrist. True, the break only lasted a matter of minutes until the angel could heal the bones, but the sick cracking sound had gone straight to the pit of Dean’s stomach. 

‘So what’s a good-looking guy like you doing all alone?’

He glances up, sees the young woman sliding onto the stool next to him, and considers her for a minute. Bright eyes, not showily made-up, dark hair caught back in a barrette at the nape of her neck. She’s got a sweet smile and a faint color in her cheeks that makes him think she knows how cheesy the line she just delivered sounds. 

Automatically, he starts to turn towards the bartender, intending to signal for a drink ‘for the lady’ and another for himself and start the ball rolling. From the look in her eyes, it won’t take a lot and, hell, it’s been a _fuck_ of a month. 

Then he pauses. Turns back. Looks at her again, takes in the eyes that are maybe a bit too bright, the color in the cheeks that isn’t fading, the slight anxiety in the nibbling of her lower lip. ‘So who hit you in high school?’

She blinks and recoils slightly. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. Never mind. Look...tonight’s probably not a good night, okay? I’m just...’ He waves one hand vaguely and sighs, pinching at his eyes. ‘Just not in the mood. Sorry.’

There’s a minute of silence, then: ‘Whatever you say.’ He hears her slide off the stool and the sharp click of her shoes on the floor.

 _Fuck._ ‘Do I get points for that, Cas?’ He mutters into his palm and downs the rest of his beer in two swallows.

* * *

If he’d been expecting a medal on his pillow the next morning with “Morally Upright, Emotionally Sound Citizen” engraved on it, he’d’ve been disappointed. The only thing there is John’s journal which he’d fallen asleep reading and, below the pillow, his handgun. 

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. ‘So I stopped, Cas. Don’t I get a cookie or something?’ _Jesus, one black eye in high school and you’re ruined for life._

He nearly gets a second shiner when a package of Oreos falls from the ceiling.

* * *

‘Thanks for the snack, Cas.’

‘What snack?’ Sam blinks himself awake from a half-doze in the passenger seat of the Impala.

‘I am glad you enjoyed them, Dean,’ Cas says calmly from the back seat.

‘So...’ He clears his throat, waits for a loud chorus in the song on the radio to pass. ‘Is this like the angel version of flirting?’

No answer and Dean glances in the rearview mirror, ignoring Sam who simply groans and tries to find a more comfortable position against the door. 

Castiel is looking out the window, studiously engaged in studying the cornfields passing by outside but Dean doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint flush on high cheekbones and he grins to himself and looks back at the road.

* * *

For the next few days, Dean teases Castiel mercilessly about the cookies, even lacing the pockets of his trenchcoat with the four-cookie packs from a gas station vending machine. 

It takes a few days past that, when he and Cas are sniping at each other about something that had gone wrong on the hunt the previous night, leaving Sam with a solid whack to the head, for him to realise -- while pointing out to Cas for what felt like the _n_ th time that an unloaded shotgun was really _not_ best used as a club unless he wants some _advanced_ lessons in gun repair -- that he doesn’t worry about Castiel.

Not like he doesn’t worry that the angel will be hurt or caught or get in trouble or get stuck somewhere Dean and Sam can’t get to him but -- he doesn’t worry about being with him. 

It’s not like it’s easy -- Cas never lets it be _easy_ \-- but Dean doesn’t have to reset his brain to be around Cas. He doesn’t have to make up a job that ‘brought him to town for a week,’ or pretend to be someone’s long-lost third cousin, or worry that he forgot to put the right ID in his wallet this time. He doesn’t have to feel that moment of panic when it comes to choose a lie _this_ time.

He works it over in his mind for the rest of the argument -- which he wins handily after Sam, dry-swallowing ibuprofen, enters on his side -- and for the rest of the afternoon and finds himself late that evening staring at the gun he had planned to clean and worrying his thumbnail down to blood. 

‘Is something wrong, Dean?’ Castiel looks from the gun to him and Dean blinks up at him.

‘Huh? Uh -- no, no -- I -- nope.’ He rubs a hand over his face and adds, ‘Did you and Sammy get food?’

‘Sam remained at the restaurant. I thought you would want something to eat.’ Castiel proffers him a white plastic bag with the familiar shape of a styrofoam shell inside.

‘Thanks.’ Dean takes the bag and his fingers brush over Castiel’s hand and he freezes. 

This is nothing like the times Castiel took his hand in a bar-room or the time he backed Cas into the hallway. This time, he really doesn’t want to move. It’s not like he doesn’t want to strip Castiel’s clothes off and lick him all over because he _does_ \-- but it’s not the same sharply electric, almost uncomfortable _musthavenow_ need it was before. 

‘Dean?’ Castiel’s hand turns and catches his fingers, squeezing slightly. 

‘I...sorry, Cas...sorry...’ He looks up and catches Castiel’s eye. ‘I...uh...yeah. Sorry.’

‘It is all right. You have nothing to apologise for.’ Castiel rustles the bag. ‘Are you not hungry?’

‘Uh...no. I...I guess not. I...’ He hasn’t moved his hand and neither has Cas and he has no idea what comes next. ‘I...’ His mouth has gone dry and he can’t remember what he asked Sam to buy him for dinner but he’d bet just about anything it’s not going to look as tempting as Castiel’s mouth. ‘I...I’d really...I’d like....I’d like to stop, Cas.’ He swallows hard but it doesn’t make his mouth feel any less parched and Castiel is just looking at him and, God, he has made such an _idiot_ of himself and Cas is never going to forgive him because why the fuck should he and--

‘Dean. Stop.’ Castiel sets the bag down carefully beside the disassembled gun and sits on the bed beside it. 

‘I thought that’s what I did!’ Dean snaps before he can stop himself. 

Castiel nearly smiles, a twitch of the lips that’s the closest he gets to a grin. ‘I mean, stop berating yourself. I...still have the...concerns I did before but...’ Slowly, very carefully, as if he thinks Dean will flee the room if he moves too fast, Castiel touches the back of Dean’s wrist, spreading his fingers over the wristbones and Dean thinks he might have to stop breathing for a minute to take it all in. ‘I find I...I miss...’ He frowns slightly, just a quirk of his eyebrows together, looking down at his pale fingers on Dean’s tanned ones. ‘It seems so...foolish to miss something so small.’ He looks up at Dean, eyebrows still pulled together. 

‘Why does it matter if I touch you or not?’

Dean shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It seems so...it should make no difference if I touch you or someone else or--’

‘Who the hell else’ve you been touching!’ Dean means it as a joke but he’s not quite sure it comes out that way.

‘It was only reasonable to test the question.’

Dean snatches his hand back, feeling unreasonably pissed. ‘With who!’

Castiel shrugs. ‘There was a young man in a bar. He seemed slightly drunk.’

‘Jesus, Cas! And you’re lecturing _me_ on picking up people in bars!’ Dean shoots to his feet.

‘I touched his hand, Dean! That was all.’ Castiel stands. ‘It was...not important.’

‘Not important! It’s not important when _you_ do it and it’s the end of the fucking world when _I_ do!’

‘It is _not_ the end of the world but -- you do it to punish yourself! To prove that no-one cares about you and no-one ever will.’ 

The strength goes out of Dean’s knees and he sits down sharply. 

It wasn’t like he’d thought those words before. He hadn’t thought anything like them, not ever as far as he remembered.

But in Castiel’s calm, cool, slightly rough voice, they seem to describe everything perfectly and he really, _really_ wants a shower because that’s a _lot_ of shit sex he has to get off his skin.

‘Dean -- I am sorry -- I did not mean--’

‘Get out, Cas. Just...go.’


	3. Chapter 3

There’s another package of cookies on the pillow beside him the next morning and Dean’s hand lands on it with a crinkle of plastic. The noise wakes him the rest of the way up and he stares at the blue, black, and white packaging, then rolls onto his back and drops his hands over his eyes. 

‘So are you and Cas gonna stop squabbling any time soon?’ He hears the bathroom door open and Sam speaking around a toothbrush. ‘’Cause it’s gettin’ a bit old now.’ Spitting sounds and then Sam’s voice is a bit clearer. ‘I mean, it was cute for the first month but--’

‘He told me I hook up with people to prove to myself I’m worthless.’ Dean speaks without moving his hands.

Dean can practically hear Sam’s brain grind to a halt. Then he hears soft footsteps and a creak as -- he imagines -- Sam sits down. 

‘Well.’ There’s the sound of bootlaces being loosened and a slight grunt as Sam bends over. ‘You kinda do.’

‘What!’ Dean sits up so sharply his head spins and he glares at Sam in the early morning light. ‘I do not!’

‘Dude. You do.’ Sam glances up at him from the boot, then starts on the second one. ‘You’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than -- what? maybe six months? And has there ever been anyone you were honest with? About what you do? Except for...what’s her name..’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Cassie?’

Dean practically growls; Cassie was his only ace in the hole. ‘Hey, you don’t know everything I’ve done! And what the hell about _your_ track record!’

‘We’re not talking about me here. So,’ Sam finishes the second boot and puts his hands on his knees, waiting. ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

Dean grinds his teeth and throws back the covers, intending to escape from his incredibly annoying little brother by taking a shower.

‘I bet _Cas_ doesn’t think you’re worthless.’

Dean whirls back around and jabs a finger towards Sam. ‘Don’t think I won’t kick your ass just because I’m not dressed yet.’

Sam is leaning back on his elbows, a particularly irritating grin on his face. ‘After all, he _did_ leave you cookies. On the other hand,' Sam eyes Dean critically and taps a finger against his lower lip. 'He’s _clearly_ not concerned about your waistline--’

It is supremely unfair that Sam has the advantage of longer legs to get him to the door first. Still, Dean gets a modicum of satisfaction from filling his remaining pairs of socks with shaving cream.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t show up that day -- or the next -- or the next -- or the next and by this time Dean is sick of the thoughts squirreling around his head. 

Sam heads out in the afternoon to the downtown library, intending to spend some quality time with the local newspaper and figure out who in this town might’ve died angry enough to come back and take out their issues on the high school football team. 

Dean takes a deep breath, makes sure the door is locked, and sits down on his bed, trying to pretend he has any idea what the hell he’s doing.

‘Castiel. I’d...really like to talk to you.’ The words come out between his teeth and he clenches his hands between his knees because a small part of him still wants to give Cas a bloody nose over what he said. 

There’s a slight current of air and Castiel must have some sense of that small part of Dean’s mind because he’s over by the dingy set of chairs and table tucked into an alcove of the room by the door, almost the entire width of the room away from Dean. His shoulders are a tight line and he does not look up at Dean.

‘So...about those cookies.’

Castiel glances up immediately. ‘I do not want them back.’ There’s a faint tinge of alarm in his voice that Dean can’t account for.

Dean blinks. Derailed already. This is gonna go _great._ ‘Uh -- good? ‘Cause I ate ‘em.’

‘Oh. Good. I hope you enjoyed them.’

‘I...yeah, they were...fine.’ What the fuck are they talking about? Dean takes a deep breath and starts again. ‘Look, Cas, I’ve been thinking about what you said and--’

Castiel holds up a hand. ‘It was not right of me to say such a thing. I--’

 _‘And,’_ Dean lands on the word with as much emphasis as he can muster, ‘you’re right. _With_ a couple exceptions. But you’re...you’re mostly right.’ He swallows hard, tasting a faint tinge of bitterness in the back of his throat. ‘I can’t say I go out with that in mind but...yeah.’ He nods once, sharply. ‘You’re right.’

‘I still should not have said it, Dean. It was not...kind.’

‘And since _when_ have you worried about being _kind_ to me?’ Dean snorts before he gets a look at Castiel’s face and sees pure strickenness there for a split second before it vanishes into the angel’s usual composure. Dean can’t think what he wanted to say next -- he hadn’t seriously thought it was possible but his mind goes _blank._

He gets up and walks across to Castiel, slowly, as if the angel were a cornered animal who might bite. ‘You’re right. It sucks.’ 

Simple, declarative sentences. He can do this. And he only has to swallow twice before he gets the last one out: ‘I want to be done with it.’ 

It surprises him that his voice is so steady; he doesn’t _feel_ steady. He feels like if Cas reached out and poked his shoulder he’d sway on his feet.

But Castiel just stands and looks at him. 

‘I want...’ There aren’t any words to finish that sentence. Dean licks his lips and tries for something like a normal tone. ‘So... so I don’t know how this goes. You bought me cookies -- do you want --’ And there’s that blank mind again: he can’t think of a damn thing the angel could possibly want. ‘Uh...coffee...?’ 

It’s the only thing he can think of and he’s an idiot.

Castiel still isn’t _doing_ anything and at this point Dean thinks he’d welcome another unfortunate revelation about his past love life or a comment on how many Oreos he’s eaten in the past week or just about anything if Cas would only _say _something.__

Instead, Castiel reaches out a careful hand and touches Dean’s cheek and he’s not prepared for that and how long has it been since something this _simple_ made his knees watery and his breath speed up?

Castiel’s fingertips are a little cold, but they warm up quickly and then all Dean can think is that they’re _soft_ and careful and Castiel is exploring his face like the angel’s blind, stroking fingers over the arch of his cheekbone and the angle of his jaw and chin. Castiel isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at his hand _touching_ Dean’s face, and he has that faint frown and tilt of the head that means he’s trying to sort something out.

‘Uh...Cas?’

‘It was...uncomfortable.’ Cas is still studying his own fingertips, stroking around Dean's temple now, teasing at the strands of loose hair above his eyebrow.

‘What?’ Dean reaches up and grabs Castiel’s wandering hand, unable to focus on what the angel is saying with fingertips smoothing back into the hair above his ear.

‘Watching you go through that over and over again.’

A dreadful thought strikes Dean and his throat dries out again: the angel’s been talking in abstractions this whole time. God, he’s been chewing his heart out, questioning the way he runs his whole fucking _life_ over _nothing_ \-- any passing sob story Cas takes seriously -- Dean has seen him spend hours with a stray _kitten,_ for God’s sake -- this is _nothing_ to him--

‘Now you are thinking too much,’ Castiel informs him quietly and leans forward and kisses him.

This is better than Dean remembers: there’s no smell of stale spilled beer and cleaning supplies this time and he can smell the faint sweetness of shampoo and soap and a faint, underlying spiciness that must be Castiel’s skin and he hears himself moan into the angel’s mouth.

He doesn’t realise until Castiel pulls back to breathe that his hands have knotted themselves in folds of cloth, gathering up trenchcoat and suit and shirt into a great rumple of cloth.


	4. Chapter 4

‘So...uh...that was good...’ Dean leans his forehead against Castiel’s, half-closing his eyes. 

‘I would like to do it again.’ Castiel sounds slightly breathless and that makes Dean feel better about his sudden desire to pant.

‘Good plan.’ Dean tilts Castiel’s chin up just slightly and licks his lower lip, feeling rough skin with the tip of his tongue before Castiel moans and it seems so much easier to taste the inside of the angel’s mouth. 

And Cas has either just brushed his teeth or angels have some magic fresh breath thing going on because he can’t believe any normal guy at the end of a long day tastes this _good_ \-- he’s pretty sure _he_ doesn’t. But the way Castiel is sucking on his lower lip and the angel’s hands at the back of his head seem to be pretty clear indications that maybe Cas doesn’t agree -- or at least doesn’t care.

‘Okay...okay, bed now?’ Dean tugs on Castiel’s hips, pulling him forward a step or two until Castiel decides to plant his heels and be immovable.

‘I am still...I do not--’

‘Oh, no. No fucking _way_ do you get to do this to me again...’ Dean takes a step back and throws off his overshirt -- it’s too hot in here anyway -- and goes to skin off his t-shirt, but Castiel puts hands over his and stops him. ‘Cas -- _no_ \--’ 

This is all he’s got -- doesn’t the angel understand that? He’s willing to stop the bar hook-ups and forget the back-alley fucks, but there’s no grand noble center to Dean Winchester he can reveal to seal the deal here. Kissing he’s good at, but fucking he’s _great_ at and if that doesn’t do it--

Castiel catches and holds his gaze -- blue eyes so dark Dean wonders how he’s managed to look at them so often -- day after day -- and still get through everything else he has to do. Without moving anything other than his shoulders, Castiel shrugs off the trenchcoat and Dean’s mouth goes bone-dry.

Oh -- _oh._ Well, if _that_ was what Cas had in mind--

Dean reaches out to help with the suit jacket, but Castiel pushes his hands away and Dean shrugs and stands where he is.

The coat and jacket go in a neat pile over a chairback, Castiel stretching back just slightly to put them there. Dean can see the muscles moving under the pulled-tight side of the white buttondown and he can’t resist the urge to put his hand there, right above Castiel’s belt, just enough pressure that he can feel body heat and Castiel turns back around to stare at him in undisguised surprise.

Dean grins at him and steps closer, pulling the shirt out of the waist of the trousers and slipping one hand beneath, stroking the place he just felt through cloth, feeling the soft space between rib and hip, the unexpectedly sharp angle of Castiel’s hipbone. ‘I should’ve made _you_ eat those Oreos.’

‘What?’ Castiel fiddles with the hem of Dean’s t-shirt as if he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it and Dean takes his hand and firmly plants it on his own hip, Castiel’s fingers just sliding below the loose waist of his jeans. Castiel takes a sharp breath and his eyes go wide and Dean kisses him again and it’s _much_ easier to get the clothes off this way.

He’s not sure who gets what off whom but it ends up with him sitting on the end of his bed, Castiel between his knees, and both in boxers. 

Castiel’s skin is warm -- warm everywhere Dean touches and he’s touching a _lot_ : as much as Cas will let him over ribs and breast and stomach and shoulders and arms and-- 

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to shove the heel of one hand against the base of his cock without making it _look_ like that’s what he’s doing. Christ, if he comes in his shorts now, he’s never going to forgive himself but Cas is just _there_ and warm and touching him back and Dean didn’t have to do any lying to get him here and he’s not sure which part is making his mouth dry and his muscles tremble more. But he does know he better watch it or Cas isn’t gonna get much of a night out of this.

It doesn’t get better when Castiel slides to his knees and brackets Dean’s hips with his hands, leaning forward to kiss his way around Dean’s collarbone, stroking the divot in the center with his tongue and then continuing along the other side until Dean is clutching at the bedclothes.

‘Cas... _Cas_...’ He can barely suck in enough breath to speak, Castiel’s tongue is seriously short-circuiting his ability to inhale. He grabs at the angel’s shoulders, taking a little comfort in the fact that Cas doesn’t seem to be breathing too evenly either. ‘You have to stop.’

The angel pulls back immediately. ‘Why?’ His eyes are dark, watchful, and it takes Dean a few seconds of lust-hazed thought to realise why.

‘No, no -- you’re -- we’re fine, I just...’ _Don’t wanna come like a thirteen-year-old._ ‘...don’t want this to be over too fast.’

Castiel hesitates for a minute, then smiles at him and this is a _new_ smile, this isn’t like Cas trying out the human expression to see how it feels, this is dirty and a little smirky and slightly pouty and Dean _loves_ it.

Castiel slides a hand over Dean’s hip, down his thigh, tracing random patterns through the light hair scattered there. ‘You have an exceptionally good refractory period for a man your age--’

‘Jesus, Cas!’

‘--I do not believe this will ruin the evening.’ And Castiel ducks and _nuzzles_ the tip of Dean’s cloth-covered erection and if much more of that goes on, he’s not going to be able to keep himself sitting up. His fingers are practically digging holes in the comforter as it is and he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Then Cas _licks_ \-- and that’s it, game over, Dean goes over backwards like a puppet with cut strings.

Castiel is licking and nuzzling, and good Christ, _sucking,_ through the cloth of a cheap pair of boxers Dean had probably picked up in a dollar store. And his hands are sneaking under Dean’s hips, up his back, and tweaking at the elastic of the waistband.

‘Lift your hips...’ Castiel murmurs, leaning forward, pressing himself against Dean’s legs and _rubbing,_ like a fucking huge cat and Dean can’t do anything except what he’s told. His boxers disappear and, the next thing he knows, Cas is on the bed beside him, naked and Dean is going to have to be in on that next time because getting naked without him is just a dirty trick on Cas’ part but the angel is leaning down over Dean’s body to kiss the tip of Dean’s cock and thinking doesn’t really seem _that_ important.

‘Jesus!’ Dean arches up and Castiel seems to take this as a signal and opens his mouth and-- _fuck._ Dean gropes, grabs for something, _anything_ to keep him anchored to the bed, and finds Castiel’s hip, his thigh, and the firm, hot pressure of his cock against Dean’s hip. 

Cas nearly _whimpers_ when Dean strokes a path down the angel’s dick, tangling his fingers in the rough hair at the base - circled fingers and a tug and Castiel’s mouth slides off Dean’s cock with a slight _pop_ noise that makes Dean press his hips back into the bed again. Cas drops his head against Dean’s hip and his fingers clench hard against Dean’s ribs.

‘Can’t let you have it all your own way...’ Dean rolls on his side, tugging Castiel down beside him and stroking a long, warm path down the front of his body from breast to hip -- and a little beyond. Castiel’s cock is blushing red, a little dampness at the tip, and Dean wraps his fingers around it again, feeling solidity like muscle under soft skin and thinking he could become addicted to the small, throaty noises Castiel makes.

He doesn’t realise he’s thrusting against Castiel’s thigh until the angel slides a hand down between them and imitates what Dean’s doing on Dean’s own body. 

Dean groans and fumbles blindly until he finds Castiel’s mouth. 

‘You must...you must tell me...’ Castiel mumbles against his lips, between kisses, between Dean biting at the angel’s lower lip and Castiel practically tongue-fucking Dean’s mouth.

‘Tell you what...’ Dean runs the tip of his tongue along the inside of Castiel’s lower lip.

‘If...if I...if I hurt you...you must tell me...’

‘This doesn’t hurt, Cas...’ Castiel’s fingers tighten at just the _right_ spot just below the head of Dean’s cock and he can’t hold on any more -- he’s gone, so far over the edge he can’t do anything but convulse against Castiel’s body, and come until he feels hollow inside.

‘Dean... _Dean_...’ And his own name has never sounded particularly lovely to Dean -- but he thinks said like that, with Castiel pulsing in his hand, it might become his new favorite thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean's movie is [_The Unknown World_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unknown_World) \-- totally worth seeing if you get a chance!
> 
> I wrote this fic before I saw episode 5.04, "The End." Thus, my choice of 2010 was _completely_ at random: nothing is intended by it except that it was easy to type and I didn't realise I might accidentally be hurling a spanner into the works of my own damned story.


End file.
